


The Artist's Restraint

by storiesfortravellers



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Artist Steve Rogers, Banter, Brooklyn, Longing, M/M, Paint Kink, Painting, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Unrequited, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 00:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2046909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesfortravellers/pseuds/storiesfortravellers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For this prompt at comment-fic: Steve/any, painting can be messy</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Artist's Restraint

“There’s more paint on the floor than there is on your canvas,” Bucky observed as he walked into their apartment. The window was open, for the fumes, and they could hear the sounds of Brooklyn, kids yelling and playing and shopkeepers screaming at the kids.

Steve sighed and folded his arms. He was sitting on a small stool in front of the table where some old books were propping up a canvas that had a few pencil marks in the center and a yellow square on the side with flecks of red and blue and purple and white. He was still working on his art school assignment.

“Just paint whatever’s in your head, it’ll be great,” Bucky said as he took off his sweaty shirt and pants. He liked to roam around the apartment in his shorts.

Steve conscientiously didn’t watch him undress. He just stared at the canvas some more and said, “I don’t think there’s anything as brilliant in my head as you think there is.”

Bucky walked over, saying, “Buddy, I already know your head’s full of rocks. It’s those magic hands that are gonna take over if you let them.” 

Steve rolled his eyes. “Don’t patronize me.”

“Don’t use big words, Steve. It makes me feel like you’re talking down to me or something. If only I knew a word to describe what I mean….”

“Shut up,” Steve said, grinning.

“What’s the yellow?” Bucky asked, leaning down so his head hovered right next to Steve’s, right over his shoulder, the heat of his body hovering at Steve’s back.

“It was gonna be a house.”

“A house for who?”

“I’m having trouble deciding.”

“Hm. You can’t decide who you want to have a home with in your pretty yellow house. What would Dr. Freud say?” Bucky said, teasing.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Steve said, tensing. 

“Nothing, I just – it’s like you paint a house that doesn’t look anything like any place you’ve ever lived, Steve. Almost like you don’t like Brooklyn or something….”

“That’s not it,” Steve said, relieved. 

“Glad to hear it buddy,” Bucky said, then took Steve’s hand and looked at it, turned it a little to see all the dots and splatters of color that spread across his fingers and hands, even a little on the arm. “You know, I always liked the way your hands look when you paint. Pretty.”

Steve looked up at him, wondering for a moment if there were some clue there, some hint that Steve was missing. But he figured it was just wishful thinking, so he took his hand back and wiped a little paint on Bucky’s bare thigh.

“There,” said Steve, smirking, “Now you’re pretty too.”

Bucky grinned and tousled Steve’s hair, something he only got away with when Steve had just done something that anyone else would punch him for. He said, “I’m going to remind you that you said I’m pretty at a very embarrassing moment, Rogers,” and laughed and walked away to go wash off the paint.

Steve stared after him, watched the motions of his muscles closely, imagined the smile that still clung to Bucky’s lips. He looked back at his near-empty canvas and, just for a moment, wished that the assignment was to do a portrait. But then he figured that nothing good would come of that.


End file.
